


To Whom it May Concern

by emmettcadrian



Series: Poison & Wine [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-02-01 19:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12711030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmettcadrian/pseuds/emmettcadrian
Summary: England, 1906. John Segundus, now one-hundred-twelve years old, has been blind for sixty-six of those years.





	1. Funeral Dress (I Don't Need Any Colour)

**1906**

 

There is a certain moment enjoyed by a particular gentleman upon his waking, his  _almost_ waking: that subtle shifting of limbs, barely stirring, not  _quite_ lifting himself from sleep as he stirs in his bed - or favourite armchair, battered desk chair, or wherever he had happened to fall asleep - as that bright (albeit rare) sunlight is filtered through cobwebbed windows and yellowing curtains to fall upon his aged face in a dim heat and barely-there light. 

  ** _This is_** , a gentleman once wished, **_how all mornings should begin_**. 

With a sunrise of bright gold and warm orange and crisp red blossoming through the grey sky that slowly creeps over the ridges of England's hills; through crags and bogs and narrow cobbled streets, there is many a day when this gorgeous light of long-held dreams is hidden by thick storms or dark clouds; an overcast day not quite as disappointing as a rainstorm, but perhaps an even _more_ miserable sight, it is a rarity for the sunlight to burn through the royal purple sky as many welcome the dawn of another day as they begin their busy day-to-day lives. The fisherman fishes and the bakerman bakes; mothers and fathers rise to the sounds of their children, and many a bell tolls from a sharp steeple through city, township, and village alike. Voices slowly grow in volume, footsteps echo through narrowed streets and cluttered hallways as cartwheels bearing goods for delivery clatter over cobbles; merchants unlock their doors as silver chime, signalling the beginning of a new business day, and goods and services are exchanged as the inhabitants of the world re-wake and, once again, begin their busy lives.

 ** _Every day is new_** , a gentleman once stated,  ** _one does not know what will happen to himself today._**

Time ticks onwards, you see. The world reawakens, and is unchanged. The weather may be different day-to-day, and the order of bread consumed and milk delivered and cotton sewn will differ within day-to-day living, but it all remains unchanged. The sun rises (as observed), and in twelve hours, shall set again over the west in another beautiful explosion of colour that melts the coldest of hearts and renders even the greatest artist embarrassed, but it is all the same. Dawn, daily living, sunset, sleep. Day after day. It begins and ends; begins and ends, over and over, with no reprieve. Days follow days, and become weeks. Weeks become months, and months become years. This bitter reflection has, unfortunately, become the bitter reality of those who have lived it all over and over and over again, and know that there was nothing, in the end, to anything, and it is this eschallot bitterness - as distressingly as it seems - that has become the life-breath of a particular gentleman who still resides at Starecross Hall. 

 ** _I shall never tire of it here_** , a gentleman once gushed,  ** _for this manor is timeless and the history within ever-so important._  **

Time had long ago stopped at Starecross Hall, and the cruellest effect of this was that the surrounding grounds had blossomed into a constant state of springtime bloom. Flowers of various shades and species bloomed behind the gleaming iron fence, holding their lustre all year 'round, attracting swarms of pleasant bees and majestic butterflies  even as the foundations of the house sunk further into the black mire of the wet mud. The pale blue of the forget-me-nots on the wallpapered halls had disappeared behind the damp, turning the gentle flowers a sickly yellow and brown beneath thick layers of mould, and the floorboards beneath the sheet-covered furniture visibly weakened and split as unforgiving hand of the northern winter chill, and no sapling nor growth was ever again stripped to a skeletal figure by the seasons, for they no longer changed at Starecross Hall. Nothing changed at the aged house, even as it collapsed and rotted and began to fall apart; even as it possessed a sole inhabitant who continued to live his solitary life. 

Across the ever-blooming paradise beamed the brightest light of dawn; through cobwebbed windows and yellowing curtains, creeping steadily across floorboards covered in dust that was long undisturbed; motes of dust glittering in the slivers of light that danced through the long-silent halls, and settling atop the pale skin and wan face of a gentleman asleep at his desk, atop his multiple papers. The curtain that hung askew above the desk stirred in the cool breeze, wind whistling through a crack in the frosted glass; the frayed hem gently straying over fingers gnarled with arthritis, and it was this gentle touch that woke the gentleman from his sleep. Though the window sat above his desk, and the curtains did not cover the entire window, the bright beam of sunlight would do no good in waking the gentleman from his uneasy rest. For all he blinked and pressed the heel of one hand to his right eye, the yellow sunlight was nothing in the everlasting black that was his eyesight. Alas, he could no longer see the light - not even if he wished to - for Mr John Segundus, now one-hundred-twelve years old, had been blind for sixty-six of them. 

 He was now wide awake, even if he had no intention to be, and rose steadily from his place at the table. There was an ever-present ache in his back, which Mr Segundus attempted to remedy by rubbing his knuckles at the inflamed place, and pressed his free hand to his eyes - as if to remove the exhaustion from the core of being simply by rubbing them vigorously - as he slowly rose to his full height, standing before his near-empty desk. It was a rare occurrence for Mr Segundus to fall asleep at his desk; rarer so  nowadays, for he no longer had any scholarly duties to attend to, and the rarest of it was that he had had a rather undisturbed sleep, at that. No dreams - certainly no nightmares - nor odd whispers or hushed voices that often lured him from his gentle sleep like lambs to the slaughter. It was odd to him to have had such a peaceful night, not considering his numerable efforts to continue the letter he had begun the previous night, but Mr Segundus was oddly grateful for the exhausted sleep he had pushed himself to fall into, even if it were at his desk and at an uncomfortable angle. Fingers resting on the edge of his desk, he ran a finger over the paper that had him served as a headrest. 

 

_Dear Sir,_

_Four months have passed since I_

 

He could not read what was there. He could not read what he had written, though he himself had scrawled it hours ago. Mr Segundus had the memory of writing it, of course. He  _knew_ what he had written on the paper; could feel it, even  _taste_ it, and almost saw the words floating before him, as if suspended in the air by magic. He touched a finger to the paper - the ink long dry - and rolled the half-sentence over in his mouth. He ought to write more. He  _knew_ he ought to write more. He would write more, but not now. Mr Segundus could no longer concentrate; having fallen asleep mid-sentence, could no longer remember what it was that he has written, or had even  _wanted_ to write. Whatever he had _intended_ to write to the monseigneur had long passed from his mind, which was disappointing. It had been important - it  _must_ have been, for why did he leave his meagre supper and traipse the stairs if what he had intended to write was not, in fact, important at _all_? He did not know. He never knew anything, anymore. 

Shaking his head, as if to clear the residual sleep from his mind, Mr Segundus pushed his chair back with his right hand (keeping his left on his desk, to be sure of his position), and stepped away from the mess of his desk. Inspiration had struck him at a most inconvenient time, for he was clad only in musty shirtsleeves and dirty breeches, and a torn pair of stockings; his scuffed shoes long abandoned beneath the dining table. A gentleman living without company was permitted to do away with common courtesies, provided no one - friend of foe - visited him in his quarters, and Mr John Segundus had been without company for twenty-three years. He had not permitted anyone to live with him in the mausoleum that was now Starecross Hall, and visitors had ceased seeking his company long before the gentleman at hand had lost his sight. Besides, Mr Segundus assured himself as he followed his fingertips across the wallpaper and towards the bedroom door,  there _was_ no one for him to see anymore. Literally or, well, literally. Mr Honeyfoot had passed away some thirty-nine years ago, and none of the magicians from the York Society remained - either in England, or alive - and the society itself had ended fifty-seven years ago.

Ended. Died out. Forcibly closed. Whichever way one wished to say it would most certainly be applicable, given the circumstances surrounding the end of magic in England. 

Hands trembling on the doorframe, Mr Segundus paused in his efforts. A small shudder had run through his body at the thought of England's loss of magic, leaving him weak and teary-eyed. He held the wall, leaning his forehead against the peeling wallpaper, and took several shuddering, deep breaths in order to calm himself down. The wet roll in his stomach churned over and over, making him feel as if he had walked into an ice-cold pond; black water closing over his head and swallowing him whole as he walked with stones in hand to settle on the cold bottom in the dank mud. The thought of settling into the black mire made his breath catch in his throat, and Mr Segundus took several deep breaths, choking out the air as he struggled to pull himself from his anxious tangle of thoughts and memories. It took him several moments to right himself - wishing that he was wearing his coat, even if he might just tug on the lapels, as if to reassure himself - but he managed to calm his breathing, steady himself, and find the path he walked along the wall. 

Chapped fingertips and bitten nails brushed along the wallpaper, feeling tears and missing strips as Mr Segundus walked along down the hallway; melancholy one again striking him as he recalled the house at the height of its grandeur, following the days during the disappearance of Messieurs Strange and Norrell. The house, as he and Honeyfoot had prepared to welcome the newest magicians to the tutelage of the York Society, had never been so beautiful: perhaps only once before, when the Lady had lived there following it's construction. **_We had done well_** , Segundus told himself, as he neared the end of the hallway and approached the staircase. It was several moments of crouching down to touch the top stair with his right - a ritual of sorts, despite having known this house inch by inch- before rising upright to his feet once again. **_That is the burden of the end of my days_** , Segundus supposed, reaching out with his left hand to grip the bannister and slowly make the gentle journey down the stairs. His burden - to no longer see nor recognise the beauty and grandeur of the world as it was before him, the loss of which he mourned hour by hour, minute by minute, second by second. The cruelest of curses had befallen the once-jovial gentleman, and were his young self to look upon him now, Segundus knew even he would not recognise, nor know, himself as he currently lived. 

Segundus' stomach growled, stopping him mid-way down the stairs, and he placed his free right hand over his shirt. It was understandable that he be peckish: having simply forgotten his dinner three bites through the simple meal and rushing upstairs to begin the letter that now lay abandoned on his desk. It was nothing special, of course: a stew made from the potatoes and leeks from the square of dirt behind the house, and paired a rather sinewy rabbit from the trap out by the gate. It was all he had the energy to cook for himself, and all he had to eat, anyway; the taste of the richer fare from the Continent long forgotten, as well as the simple delicacies from the bakery in Yorke. Not that he had been able to afford such fancies when earning his meagre stipend as Jonathan Strange's scribe, but he had been able to taste those flaky crusts if he had scrimped here and there, now and again. Rubbing his stomach at the growl that rose at the thought of the delicious buns he had once eaten, Segundus supposed he was fortunate that the house, at least, provided meagre fare for his to sup on, and that he did not have the brave the road or woods to find himself some food. 

At the use of the word  _lucky_ _,_  Segundus chuckled, continuing his slow journey down the stairs. He was  _lucky_ , was he, to be burdened with this...this... _task_ , this...this  _endeavour_. _**No**_ , Segundus shook his head,  ** _burden is correct_**. How he could consider himself _lucky_ to be burdened with something such as this was beyond the pale...beyond anything he knew or had known; had felt experienced in the past sixty-four years. That was the outcome of their journey, however. It was the consequence of their actions; the effect of their  choices. Just as Starecross Hall became timeless had Arabella Strange disappeared and Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell perish; just as John Childermass had struck Segundus blind had magic vanished from the world, and those who _would_ study its arcane properties persecuted and punished for the entirely unforeseen circumstances surrounding its resurgence in the world. His bare feet touched the cool wood of the last step and floor, and once again, Segundus shook his head at his absurd thinking, and reached out for the wall to guide himself towards the kitchen, and towards the remains of his evening meal. 

His feet, however, refused to follow his instructions, and carried the elderly gentleman towards the bolted doors of Starecross Hall. Thinking the age-old manor house abandoned, children from the local villages had taken to investigating the mysteriously ever-blooming garden and running across the luscious lawns; young sweethearts frolicked behind the house on shabby blankets, and the more adventurous of them all had shattered windows with stones from the nearby stream - adding further ruination to a house already under the constant pressure of immanent collapse - and exploring the rooms and halls with hushed tones and giggled whispers. Dust, mould, water damage, and sheet-covered furniture were an expected sight, but none could say the same for the hunched figure with clouded eyes who staggered down the stairs, shouting at them in a voice worn ragged by years of strenuous living; Segundus thus having become a legend akin to weeping women out on the high roads and spectres of the dead in graveyards. Nothing seemed to keep them out, not even the bite of the winter winds, so Segundus had long ago taken to bolting the gate and doors to the house, and boarding up any of the windows that provided access to the house. As of this moment, standing barefoot in the hall in naught but his rags, Segundus stood in front of the heavy door, and - without his express permission or say-so - Segundus pulled the bolt back through the lock, and reached for the key he kept 'round his neck in a single instance, which he then inserted into the lock, opening it with ease and no more than a full  _click_. 

Segundus did not know how long it had been since he had stepped outside the manor. In truth, it had only been two days, but he had spent his time retrieving vegetables and meat, and had not stopped to ponder the garden's many earthly delights. The scent of the grass and the flowers, the warmth of the sun, and the sounds of the birds and bees and babbling stream hit Mr Segundus all at once, and for a moment, he was frozen in place: one hand on the handle of the door, and the other clutching at the shirt on his chest. Stock-still, he observed the smells and sounds, tilting his head towards the sky as world brightened around him, and the early morning sun shone down on his wan face. For a moment, all was forgotten.

 

_To whom it may concern,_

_Regarding my previous letter, and the events that_ _transpired some sixty-four years ago,_

_I would like to clear my conscience of that had happened; with regards to that aforementioned_

_gentleman, J. Childermass, and my role in his unfortunate demise._

 

John Segundus shuddered, as if spooked by some apparition and fell to his knees amidst the mud and, as the sky blossomed with light, broke down into harsh sobs.


	2. Fever to the Form (The Smell of Roses)

**1836** (Sixty-eight years prior)

 

In the village of St Neots; a town and civil parish of Cambridgeshire, some 56.8 miles from London, and a further 143 miles from Starecross Hall, the Winstead family of no. 42 in Neots Lane were deep in mourning. Some months ago, seventy-eight year-old Agnes Mary Winstead, the matriarch of the twenty-something large family; held in high esteem for their investment in several shipping businesses, had fallen ill during the early months of winter. What had started as a minor cough during a solemn walk from Saint Joseph's Roman Catholic Church had quickly escalated into a pounding headache, numbing backache, and a never-ending chill. Bed bound since that long day in November, her illness  finally culminated into the wet cough of tuberculosis: the hearty and well-aged woman having been reduced to a sunken wastrel, feeble and crooked and almost unable to draw a full breath as she lay beneath a warm duvet in her Empire oak bed. Lady Winstead had been attended to by her eldest daughter and a kind (but ultimately useless) physician from Cambridge during her last months of life.

Finally, at 4:45AM, Agnes Mary Winstead drew her last shaky breath; weak lungs rattling amidst phlegm and bloody fluid, and died without a final word. 

One-by-one, weeping for their lost mother - **_never an unkind word_** , **_kind to all_** , ** _strict but fair_** \- her seven children sat by her side and pressed soft kisses to her cool hands and damp brow, muttering and mumbling their goodbyes as they moved about their mother's cramped boudoir, each clad in black silks and clutching pressed cotton handkerchiefs to their eyes and nose. The family mourned, and the villagers passed by the large house in solemn, respectable silence: caps clasped to chests and heads lowered in deep respect. Children were even quieter than usual as they passed by the 'big house.' The sadness of the family was almost physically manifest: the shutters down and the door closed; the smells of mourning strong in the early breeze. For, not only could the tears of the Winstead children be attributed to the sadness of the hour, nor the winter cold that greeted them as they passed through the front hall, but for the incense that the priests had burned as they administered her Last Rites. In fact, the smell seemed to have begun to permeate the house mere _minutes_ after Agnes Mary Winstead had died: a sickly sweet smell that issued from every corner, lingering in the dark halls of the house. The scent was first noticed by the maids, who had ushered the grieving children towards their mother's bedroom, and later by the children themselves, who all quietly assumed that a vase of flowers had simply rotted in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and seemed so strong because the house, as the tradition of mourning decreed, had been shut up during Mary Agnes Winstead's last hours upon the earth. 

However, strong smells of floral decay forgotten, the family proceeded with the requirements of burial as dictated by Agnes Mary Winstead's Last Will & Testament. She was to lay in her bed whilst her family - none travelling in from afar - said their goodbyes, and then she was to be collected by Hornby & Sons: a respectable funeral home from St Neots itself - the undertaker and his recent apprentice arriving two hours after death, in order to begin preparations - and her funeral would be that of an open casket no more than two days _after_ her death, before she was to be buried in the cemetery adjoining her beloved Saint Joseph's Roman Catholic Church. There, the family - and those who knew the Winstead's - would be able to stand and say a prayer, or leave flowers and other such gifts in reverence and respect. 

The undertaker stood outside of Anges Mary Windstead's door, and crossed himself; waiting for his apprentice to announce the room cleared of all mourners, and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. A soft shuffle of footsteps announced the arrival of his young apprentice, and the boy bowed the undertaker into the room. The undertaker, having drawn the deep of resignation, suddenly swooned. Light-headed, the room spinning as they took a step inwards, he fanned himself. 

"Oh, dear, I fear that the florist may have gone overboard with the, uh,  _offerings_ of grief."

"Sir?" the apprentice asked, frowning. 

"The flowers, dear boy. I fear the family may have ordered too many  _flowers_."

The apprentice took a deep breath of his own, and he, too, felt the overpowering effects of the blossoms. 

"Very well, let's get on with it," The undertaker began, adjusting his collar. "Mr Partridge, see to the deceased."

"Yes, sir?"

"Hair- none out of place. Jewellery-polished. Clothing-neat and tidy and pressed," the undertaker waved his hand, "Make sure the lady is  _presentable_."

"Very well, sir," the apprentice answered, and approached the bed with little to no hesitation.

"Then, later on; as the house is cleared, we will remove her from the room," the undertaker continued.

"As you say, sir," said the apprentice, off-handedly. He was rather distracted as he approached the bed, staring at the body of Agnes Mary Winstead.

There seemed to be  _something_ in her mouth...

"What is that-God _Almighty_!" the apprentice roared, leaping backwards in horrific surprise. 

"Language, Mr Par- _Good Lord_!"

The two man stared in surprised horror as rose petals flowed from Agnes Mary Winstead's mouth: deep red and bright pink and celestial white spilled over her dry, blue lips and down her chin and chest, coming to rest on the pressed silk of her Sunday best. 

"Did you do this?!" the undertaker, his cheeks turning grey, turned on his apprentice, "Did you do this to her?!"

"My-no! No, sir! I would never!" the apprentice turned white. 

" _You_ were the only one in here!" the undertaker cried, "You were the  _only one_ in this room!"

"I would-I would not EVER DARE!" The apprentice answered, shrilly, twisting his handkerchief between sweaty hands, " _I did not do this_!" 

"The families  _trust_ us, Mr Partridge!" the undertaker shook a fist at his cowering apprentice, " _They_ trust  _us_ to take care of their loved ones!"

"Believe me, sir, I would _not_ -"

"How  _dare_ you defile-"

"Sir, please!" the apprentice fell to his his knees, "I did not-! I would not-!"

The undertaker staring between the prostrate apprentice and the flowers spilling out of Mary Agnes Winstead's mouth; his face a mixture of shame and disgust and horror. Some part of him knew that the young Partridge  _must_ be telling the truth: the undertaker having personally selected him from the four other candidates, believing the young man to be a debonair young gentleman who held each and every person to the highest standard possible, and  _yet -_ yet, the young man was the last one in the room with the deceased, and it seemed as if he hadn't noticed the sickly smell of flowers, and-

From outside; an interruption to the undertaker's thoughts, there came the sounds of muffled cries. The undertaker and his apprentice exchanged a glance, each man glancing back at Mary Agnes Winstead, down at the roses on her dress, and seemed to come to the conclusion that the matter would be investigated to the fullest,  _after_ they investigated the source of the shouting outside the manor. They quickly covered the deceased with a thin sheet, and closed the door behind them as they left the room. None of the family needed to see what had become of their dear mother, and both men followed the south of the shouts outside. They seemed to stem from the house across the street - no. 37 of Neots Lane - and both men found themselves amidst a small crowd of interested and curious onlookers. 

"Annabel!" an elderly woman sobbed, her hand covering her eyes, " _There's something wrong with my Annabel_!"

"Wha' is it?"

"Wha' happened?"

The undertaker and the apprentice pushed inside the small crowd, their footsteps sounding muted in the silence of the carpeted hall, and hurried into the room indicated. 

The young woman - perhaps 17 or so - was pale beneath the red of the rash of the pox. Clearly dead from the disease, 'twas not the rash that had anguished her mother, but the rose petals that spilled from her dry, cracked lips. 

" _My God_ ," the apprentice whispered; eyes wide, as the undertaker crossed himself, "What  _is_ this?"

Before either gentleman could answer; even as the apprentice stepped forward to draw the poor girl's eyes shut, shrill screams and loud cries from the street brought them out of their revere and had them racing down the stairs and towards the street, back to where the crowd had gathered. There was a gap in the crowd, and the gentlemen pushed through in order to discover the source of the distress. A man had collapsed to his knees, hands at his throat. He seemed to be tugging on his cravat; cheeks red and throat bulging. The crowd were gasping, watching in shock and awe as the gentleman struggled; several people gathered around him, trying to help him loosen his tie. The undertaker and his apprentice, too, stepped forward to offer their, but before they could open their mouths the man gagged, fell forward onto his hands, and vomited a thick stream of rose petals all over the cobblestones. 

The apprentice nodded, and tried to offer a comforting reply. Instead, he coughed; hand to his mouth, as wet and ragged heaves wracked his body. It seemed as if it would last forever; as if he would choke and choke and die, there, on the corner of the street. Several hands reached out to him, offering his water and wine and the like, in order to ease his pain. One shaking hand he held aloft, and brought the other from his face in despair: a small white petal sat, glistening wetly, on his palm. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name 'Agnes Mary Winstead' was the name of Kathy Bates' character in AHS: Roanoke (2016-17)


	3. Poor Unfortunate Souls (Effigy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childermass and Segundus eavesdrop on the York Society.

**1836**

**Starre Inn, York**

" _Apparently_ , the college of surgeons has been summoned-," one voice exclaimed.

"-all _dead_ , _all_ of them! Utterly _dead_ -," a second voice rose high in pitch; panic audible in the deep baritone. 

"-roses, someone said," came a third, almost excited voice.

" _Who_ said?" asked a hidden sceptic. 

"Oh, I just heard," the third voice hurried; a noncommittal shrug accompanying the statement, "You know, like everyone knows they were all dead-"

"-and that the entire village  _stank_ of flowers."

"Not just flowers-," the third voice rose above the lull again, "- _rotting_ flowers! _Decaying_ flowers!"

"Oh, _yuck_ ," a fourth voice sounded weak, muffled; a handkerchief surely pressed against their moist lips, "Roses are bad enough, but  _dead_ roses?"

"What's wrong with roses?" 

"Is that _really_ the issue here?" the first voice spoke, again; dismay in their tone at the importance of the flowers that had  _apparently_ appeared in the mouths of the recent dead.

"No, of course not-," the voice sounded harried, as if trying to make up for their faux pas, "I just meant-"

"Is it just St Neots?" 

"Eh?"

"St Neots. Is it just that particular part of Cambridgeshire, or-"

"Or have other unfortunate souls choked to death on petals, you mean?"

"... _something_ of the sort," came the grumbled reply. 

"What's the college going to do?"

"Eh?"

"You said the college of surgeons in London had been summoned-"

"That's right."

"What're they going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"The villagers are  _dead_."

"Correct."

"So what can a surgeon do?"

"Well, they- _oh_ ," realisation seemed to be dawning on the first voice, "They-they're _dead_."

"That's what  _dying_ means," the sceptic interjected. 

"I, oh. I didn't think-"

"What do you suppose  _they're_ going to say?"

"Eh?"

"The magicians."

"We're all magicians."

"I know, I meant- I meant the Londoner. And the teachers. What do you suppose they'll say?"

"About?"

"All _this_ , ya gobshite."

"Well, I. I don't know."

"Do you suppose _they'll_ know what it was?"

"Or _how_ it happened?"

"Do you suppose it was _us_?" the first voice asked; the quiet tone a shout in the sudden silence.

"Eh?"

"Us. You know, the magic. We've been doing magic. Could we have done this?"

Another roll of silence.

"I don't see _how_ ," the second voice admitted, shyly, "We were  _careful_."

"Magic has _consequences_ , ye ken."

"Yes, of course, but-"

" _Faerie_ magic has consequences," the sceptic interjected, again; stubbornness and superiority radiating from each word, "Which we  _know_."

"Ah, but what difference does  _knowing_ that it has consequences and having seen, and therefore  _accepted_ , the consequences make?"

"All the difference in the world," the sceptic shot back, "All the bloody different in the w-"

"-not if it means  _killing_ people in order to practise it," came the hard and fast reply.

"We killed NO ONE," the sceptic exclaimed, slamming a fist onto the table, sending mugs of beer flying, "THAT was NOT US!"

"You seemed bloody confident about it," the fourth voice shot back, "Too  _bloody_ confident, if I may say so, about something you cannot be sure is  _true_."

"Of COURSE IT'S DAMN WELL TRUE!" The sceptic shouted, standing in their place and upending their chair in their angry haste, "WE WOULD KNOW!"

"HOW?!" the fourth voice shouted back, fear and panic in their voice, "HOW WOULD WE KNOW THAT?!"

" _THEY_ WOULD HAVE _TOLD_ _US_!" the sceptic bellowed, shaking their fist at the fourth speaker, "WE WOULD _KNOW_ BECAUSE THE _LONDONER_ WOULD HAVE _TOLD_ _US_!"

 

 _"It was us,"_ Mr John Segundus whispered; ear pressed against the door as he knelt outside the meeting of the York Society of Magicians, _"Wasn't it?"_

John Childermass; his own ear pressed against the door, glanced down at the kneeling Segundus with an expression of (blank) dismay."

 _"We did it, last week_ _,"_ Segundus continued, inching closer to Childermass in fresh fear, _"We were the ones who-"_

 _"-summoned a faerie, yes"_ Childermass continued, hoarsely,  _"We did that."_

 _"Faerie magic has consequences,"_ Segundus whispered, clutching at his throat,  _"Mr Norrell warned us, and we didn't-"_

He swallowed, paling at the thought of just what the York Society  _hadn't_ done the previous week, after everything that had occurred in London between Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell; stories and rumours and tales that had swept through the countryside after the black tower swept from Venice through to York, and the madness of Lady Pole and the missing servant of Sir Walter and the murders of ravens that  _swept_ through every village and city on their way to some unknown destination with some unknown purpose in mind, and now, roses were raining from the sky and were choking the inhabitants of a small hamlet a mere _week_ after the magicians of England had gathered together in order to open their ranks; Segundus and Childermass having summoned an emissary in order to track the missing Strange and Norrell.

No heed to a warning, indeed. 

 _"What shall we do?"_ Segundus asked, peering up at Childermass in the gloom of the hallway,  _"What can we do?"_

Without a word, Childermass stepped away from the door, and beckoned to Segundus with the crook of a single finger. The young gentleman rose from his haunches, dusting off his clothing with rapid sweeps of his hands. Silently, the two gentleman departed from the Starre Inn; minds working over the conversation that they had eavesdropped upon.

"Did _we_ do this, Mr Childermass?" Segundus asked at normal volume, now that they were free of the subterfuge of silence in the hallway, "Was this our doing?"

"I cannot say, Mr Segundus," Childermass replied; his usual gruff tone somewhat of a comfort to the anxious Segundus, "I cannot and will not say  _for certain_."

You see, one week prior; in the hope of locating the missing Strange and Norrell (as well as securing England as the magical centre of the world), Childermass and Segundus had summoned a Faerie. Similar to Norrell striking a match in order to meet with the Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair, Childermass and Segundus had departed to Starecross Manor in the hopes of using the magic-soaked homestead in order to summon an emissary of their own. 

"You  _must_ say, sir!" Segundus exclaimed, stepping in Childermass' way, "You  _must_ answer me!"

"Must I?" Childermass asked, one eyebrow arching up.

"You and I-," Segundus huffed, "You and I summon a faery; said faery claims a warning-"

"I-"

"-Claims a warning!" Segundus continued, raising his voice and throwing out a hand to prevent Childermass from stepping around him, "Even promises a reckoning for our  _insolence_ , and then-"

His voice wavered, and broke off in the chill of the wind. 

"This is our doing, sir," Segundus said, "We have done this, and we must be the ones to  _undo_ it."

Had they known _who_ , or _what_ , precisely, they would bring forth, perhaps it was best to leave the two magicians as missing, presumed dead. 


End file.
